


melt me down

by ohhotlamb



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Best Friends, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff without Plot, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, Pining, otabek is a big soft teddy bear and you can't tell me otherwise, yuri expresses himself through aggression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhotlamb/pseuds/ohhotlamb
Summary: “Do you remember? In Barcelona? It’s been at least three years by now.”“Of course I do,” Yuri mumbles. “That was when we first started talking.” Translated into Russian (ру́сский)Translated into Chinese (中文)Translated into Spanish (Español)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Melt Me Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154366) by [Illusion_Li](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusion_Li/pseuds/Illusion_Li)



“You were my first,” Otabek says one day, quietly, the way he tends to say most things. It’s what Yuri first learned about him—that the severe exterior and chronic resting-bitch-face were only bits of the shell of someone infinitely gentle and kind, that the motorbike and the gelled hair were little veils, meant to conceal the fact that he was someone who picked the worms off of sidewalks when it rained.

Yuri blinks, looking up, getting hair in his eyes—it’s long, well past his collarbones now, reaching towards his mid-back. He has an elastic around his wrist but if he’s honest he likes the way it feels to have the flaxen strands shift in the breeze. Meanwhile, these past three years Otabek has continuously refused to deviate from his undercut. Yuri doesn’t blame him—it looks good, and will most likely continue to look good. To be honest, it would be difficult to find a haircut that would look _bad_ on Otabek. It would be hard for Otabek to look bad in general. But that’s a dangerous line of thought, and Yuri presses a nail into his own palm, chastising himself.

“Your first what?” he asks.

Otabek’s eyes flick to look at him—ocher, with heavy lids and strong brows, always enough to get the blood swirling beneath Yuri’s cheeks (stop, stop it, _don’t_ _ruin this, dumbass—)_

“Friend.”

These days, Yuri has taken to training here in Almaty, just through the rest of the summer. He plans to return to Russia - his career is far from over, and Yakov still has much to teach him. But until then, he's rooming in the apartment Otabek's kept for the past few years in his home city, sharing his space in a way he never has before. They rise early together, spending their days on the ice or here in the foothills of the nearby mountains. It’s not unusual for them to take a weekend excursion on the motorbike, travel up the mountain path with Yuri's chest pressed to Otabek's back, the vibrations of the engine making his teeth buzz, and hide somewhere were the grass is tall and the trees are sparse enough for the sun’s warmth to reach them.

They sit beside the motorbike, Otabek busy weaving long strands of grass into some sort of bracelet, Yuri wearing one of his previous creations as a crown set against his golden hair. He snorts, tipping his head back and letting the sun touch his throat. “We’ve already talked about this. You were my first real friend, too.”

The keyword here is _real,_ one that went unspoken by Otabek but is there just the same. He’s not saying he never played with neighborhood children growing up; that he never had partners he preferred to skate next to, or that he had never laughed with someone or shared a popsicle when it was hot out. What he means is this: _you are the first friend who has **mattered**. _ And it’s a sentiment that Yuri shares—he’d only ever had people he thought more of as obnoxious siblings than people he could confide his hopes and dreams in. Mila, Viktor, Yuuko, Yuuri - all of them, people he became begrudgingly fond of ( _extremely_ fond of) but he couldn't picture doing  _this_ with them. He can imagine a happy meal with Yuuri or a brutal afternoon of conditioning with Viktor; he's called Yuuko on more than one occasion to ask after the triplets, and he'd spent the better part of his life skating after Mila's lithe shadow, always there to poke and prod at him when he least needs it. But this - he couldn't picture sitting in a goddamn  _meadow_ with any of them, perfectly content to watch their fingers weave blades of grass into a braid, more than happy to share the quiet noise of the insects. No, Otabek is special. 

(In more ways than one, but that's not something he wants to think about right now). 

Otabek clears his throat, causing Yuri to look up again. His fingers have stilled around the delicate blades of grass, back so straight and eyes so earnest as always. “Yuri, you’re eighteen now.”

A huff of a laugh. “Thanks for reminding me, Beka. I hadn’t realized.”

His smiles tend to be little wisps, enough to where the dimples in his cheeks are more hints than anything. Yuri can’t help but watch him; can’t help but be taken in by the slivers his eyes become as he grins. “Do you remember? In Barcelona? It’s been at least three years by now.”

“Of course I do,” Yuri mumbles. “That was when we first started talking.”

It was also where he (against his will) was subjected to the absolute lovey-dovey romcom snoozefest that was _the engagement_. Last year, he was Viktor’s best man. Otabek came as emotional support. The whole thing was ridiculous and Yuri has a framed wedding party picture hanging on the wall in his bedroom back in St. Petersburg. 

“I picked you up on my bike and we drank tea and shared a plate of _miguelitos."_

Yuri hums. “That was fun,” he smiles, thinking about that day fondly. He remembers feeling so indescribably warm, even in December. He remembers feeling like his face was going to fall off because he had so rarely smiled that much when he wasn’t with his grandpa. “It’s weird,” he continues, “that was my first Grand Prix Final. Though I think I remember sitting with you in that café more than I do the actual competition.”

The feeling of the hot tea against his tongue, the warm sugar of pastry sticking to his lips. Otabek, a fresh face, sitting across from him. The flow of conversation between them being easy, comfortable, never rushed or awkward. “It’s weird, right?” Yuri laughs, tilting his head. So much has changed since that day, and really nothing at all—they still sit together, sometimes silently, just soaking in each other’s company. The only thing—if Yuri were pressed to say—the only thing that’s different is the burning longing that sits like a hot brand in his chest. He doesn’t know what started it. All he knows is that one day he looked at Otabek, when he was eating or skating or picking a worm off of the sidewalk, and he hadn’t wanted to look away.

It’s quiet, because Otabek just looks at him, expression unreadable. Yuri’s brows furrow. “Beka?”

“I was just thinking that I wanted you to help me with my other ‘firsts’.”

“What does that mean?” Yuri says. It's like Otabek is speaking in riddles, purposefully vague and mysterious. “We’ve already done the important stuff. We made it to the Grand Prix Final, like, two years in a row—oh, I’m still gonna kick your ass this year, by the way, I still haven’t forgiven you for Worlds—so what else is there?”

Otabek lets his grass bracelet rest on the ground, and in a very simple, very concise gesture presses his index finger against his own lips. He looks at Yuri. “Kiss,” he says, in that infuriatingly succinct way of his.

Yuri stares at him.

_What. The. Hell._

Ignoring for just one moment what exactly Otabek might be requesting, Yuri grasps onto the underlying meaning. “You’ve never kissed anyone? You’re twenty-one!”

Otabek shrugs. “I’ve never wanted to before.”

There’s hair getting in his mouth as he gapes, and in a moment of frustration Yuri pulls it up, quickly wrapping the elastic band around it until a ponytail hangs loosely over one shoulder. “Then why now?”

He looks at Yuri like he’s missing something very crucial. “Because now I want to.”

His whole face is burning, melting under the weight of Otabek’s dark eyes and the mild heat of spring sunlight. His fingers dig into the dirt, body tense and heart pounding so hard he’s surprised the earth doesn’t quake with the force of it. “And you want me to be your first kiss because…?”

Otabek looks away, cool as can be (How? How can be possibly be casual about this?), and instead of answering he asks a question of his own. “Have you ever kissed anyone, Yuri?” 

 _No, but god have I wanted to,_ is his first reflexive thought, and he quickly tries to bury the mound of memories that assault him—the thousands of times he’d catch himself staring at the curve of Otabek’s lips, imagining, fantasizing, _craving—_

“Well, no, but this isn’t about me!” His voice is loud, very close to a shout. Defensive, which is as telling as if he had written it out in the dirt.

Otabek looks at him, another one of those feather-like smiles making Yuri’s heart hurt. “Of course it’s about you. It has everything to do with you.”

“There you go again,” Yuri groans, a little weakly. “You’re being stupid. Stop talking like you know more than me, it’s annoying.”  

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Otabek sighs, “it’s a very simple thing to say ‘no’ to.”

“What?”

“It’s a yes or no question,” he says, one brow steadily rising and it’s _infuriating_ how attractive that is. It’s annoying how his jaw is so sharp and the slope of his nose so straight and beautiful. He’s just _annoying._ “Will you let me kiss you?”

“Goddamn it,” Yuri says, pinching his eyes shut. “ _Goddamn it, Beka.”_

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, yet he doesn’t sound concerned in the least.

“Yeah, you did a lot of things wrong! You don’t stop to _think_ before you spew this shit!”

“But I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

Yuri glares at him, putting effort into keeping his teeth from baring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What I mean,” Otabek says, “is that you’re a very messy eater, Yuri. You had confectioner's sugar all around your mouth, at the café. You hadn’t noticed. I had wanted to lean across the table,” at this, he does lean, he leans until he’s eclipsed the sunlight and all Yuri can see is burnt oak, barely-there freckles dotting cheekbones. Fingers find his chin—big, rough, calloused. For someone who spends his life on ice they are incredibly warm. Yuri feels feverish. “And I had wanted to kiss it away.”

He hasn’t moved, eyes still searching, still _waiting for permission,_ and Yuri realizes that it needs to come from him. He realizes that Otabek is saying that he’s wanted to kiss Yuri Plisetsky’s ornery, ruthless, foul mouth since the day they met. He realizes this with a jolt, his mouth falling open, not missing how Otabek’s eyes follow the movement with a sort of tangible longing.

“Do it,” Yuri rasps. And then he’s on fire, heart in his throat, whole body shaking, because Otabek doesn’t take another moment to hesitate before he closes the distance between them. Fingers sliding from Yuri’s chin to cup the side of his face, head tilting so their noses don’t clash. His kiss is closed-mouthed, gentle as the rest of him. Gives Yuri the wiggle room to duck out of it or press closer. Yuri takes the latter—he leans into him, a very low, very pained sound coming from the back of his throat. His trembling fingers reach until they clasp around familiar worn leather, tugging, begging. He loves the smell of him, a scent that’s always been sweeter than one would assume just by looking at him. But that’s Otabek—first impressions are useless when it comes to him. There are always, always, always more layers to pull back and discover, each more beautiful than the last.

When Otabek leans away, Yuri finds himself chasing after him with his eyes still closed. Hands frame his face, and he slowly opens his eyes, lips feeling swollen though they had only been touched for a moment. “You were fifteen, and I was eighteen,” Otabek breathes. His eyes sparkle, and something is written on his face— _adoration,_ Yuri’s scrambled brain supplies him. “So I waited.”

“You waited for three years,” Yuri echoes flatly, breathlessly. “Are you kidding me.”

“You were still a child. It was very uncomfortable having feelings for you,” Otabek sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “I felt guilty. I knew I couldn’t act on them. But now,” he smiles, dimples flashing, “you’ve grown into quite the man.”

They had once stood on a ledge that that overlooked an entire city, and Otabek had said that Yuri had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier. He says this the same way he had said it then - as fact, an undeniable truth. That Yuri is someone worth admiring, someone worth being proud of. Someone who deserves to be kissed, and held, and loved. Worthy of friendship and everything else life has to offer. 

It's too much, and Yuri stutters. “Well, that’s, I mean,” he laughs helplessly, pressing his face into Otabek’s shoulder. “It’s a very ‘ _you’_ thing to do.” 

So stupidly chivalrous and well-mannered, always so damn  _handsome_ and  _thoughtful_ —

There’s a tug on his ponytail, and Yuri looks up, breath catching to find their faces so close. _I want another kiss,_ he thinks, and Otabek grins.

“You were worth the wait," he whispers, and leans in. 

**Author's Note:**

> i know i have 1000000 wips i need to be working on but i saw them in this last ep and im really really really weak to romances based on solid long-lasting friendships i couldNT HELP IT 
> 
> this is rly short n kinda pointless but i just needed to get my feelings out someday ill write them again and therell be an actual plot i swear 
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


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